The Script
by The Unwritten Vacancy
Summary: The liberation of Auschwitz concentration was a day of victory, a vital blow against Hitler, but also released great terror. Hollowgasts who had taken home upon the prison, abandoned the small confinements once the steady flow of Peculiar children had come to a halt. Abe Portman was assigned to assist stranded Peculiars, yet faces complications once captured by a band of wights.
1. Red, Black, and White

_Chapter 1._

_Red, Black, and White_

"_Humans, if nothing else, have the good sense to die."_

_(Death, from Markus Zusak's novel, "The Book Thief") _

One story ends.

Another begins.

That is how they taught you to see things.

In actuality, they never knew themselves.

The truth is,

The story never ends.

It is only ever continued.

Let me tell you a story.

It began on a night like any other: a night where a young man discovered how time could be raised and sculpted by the hands of the most skillful.

His name was Caul Peregrine.

He lived in a big, old house filled with children. And a bird. They were very happy.

Until one day Caul looked into the mirror. At first he only saw himself, but as he stared longer, he began to notice that he was not alone. A great emptiness surrounded him, filling the room with air and matter and choices.

It was a blank page.

Caul could do anything with it. And he would. But first he needed words. He needed words that would sway others, words that would ensure their unwavering loyalty to him no matter how dire the consequences.

So he spoke. And they listened. He spoke again. They shouted their approval.

And the bird cowered. She was not foolish. She knew what horrors might follow.

And they did. They came faster than anyone could have ever imagined.

But there were a few who resisted. There were a few who tried to hold on to their past. Those few tried to resist a monster so deadly and cunning, that he took Caul's words and strung them together in a new pattern.

It was called the Script.

…

It was nothing but a broken mirror, cracked through the middle. A very fine layer of dust had settled upon its surface; no one had bothered to wipe it away. However, if you were to look in to this mirror at that particular moment a number of observations would have been made.

1\. The men's eyes had been open, practically bulging from their skulls.

2\. Their hands were clamped tight over their ears, their fingers dug so deeply into their skin that blood began to dapple the floor in miniscule dots of red.

3\. They fell to the ground, one by one, and slowly the transformations began to take place.

There was one thing, however, that the mirror failed to capture. The screaming. It rent itself from each tormented mouth, each one more horrible then the last, filling the room with mindless terror. It never ended.

Now hold on a moment; I was getting ahead of myself. Why should you care that a couple dozen men experienced pain beyond their wildest dreams? It is only a story after all. It can't have anything to do with us.

Let us think of this night as chapter of some sort, a prologue to a far larger and greater story, the inciting event that grabs the listeners' attention. Our duty as the story-teller varies in many ways; whether we wish to become known throughout the world for our extraordinary stories that captivate and bewitch all who know of them, or we just have something to say. Maybe it is because we have nothing to say at all. But there is one thing that always stays the same, no matter what we strive to achieve. There is one goal that we all must fulfill. To get people to listen. If we can manage that, we are gifted with a power beyond any weapon that could ever exist.

There are only two men I know of who have ever held that power in their cupped hands. One was a strange little man who kept a strange little mustache. He wanted to someday rule the world. The other was a young man who only wished to be heard. He would be swallowed in inescapable indifference.

Their lives only briefly touched one another, and when they did the young man was already dead, but they never did forget each other—not even when the Führer delivered himself into Death's arms. For when men who are so similar meet, they are bound to be different. No, the young man would never forget how the Führer gazed at the screaming crowd with burning eyes, and spoke to them in the voice that laid down the lives of many.

_"The world is how we make it. The future does not belong to those who are frightened to act, but to those have the courage to stand for what is right. There comes a time we must stand for the will of God, and fight against those who refuse it. This is that time, and I ask you now to raise yourselves together and rid of the plague that has spread across our world!"_

He hated the Führer. He hated how his words were fed to the people, leaving them begging for more. But mostly he hated himself, for letting the monster swallow him in a flurry of empty promises and words.

No, this is not a simple story to be brushed aside by time. It is not story to be forgotten within a month or even a year. It _must _not be forgotten. It must not happen again.

Oh yes, the Bird cowered. She was not foolish. She knew what horrors might follow.

They came in the colors of red and black and white.


	2. Burning Day

_Chapter 2._

_Burning Day_

"_To forget the dead would be akin to killing them a second time." _

― _Elie Wiesel, Night_

A/N: I apologize for ridiculously large gap between the posting of this chapter and the one before it… I had (intelligently) decided to create no outline whatsoever, which, while that works for some, does not for me. I must have written about a dozen versions of this chapter before deciding where it was going to go. The next update will be much sooner, I promise. On a side note, I have created a Q&amp;A section for this story due to confusion concerning the timeline of certain events, which can be found on my profile page. I realize that some of the historical facts in this story may not be completely accurate, so if you find something that you know to be untrue, please do not hesitate to send me a PM or a review correcting the mistake. Thank you to those who have taken the time to review/follow/favorite this story, it helps considerably in times where my muse chooses to take an unexpected vacation.

* * *

I have always found it ironic that a man whose beliefs revolved around that of sameness and order and the perfect blonde haired, blue eyed German image, differentiated himself so deliberately from his own words.

Brown hair, combed to the opposite side of everyone else.

Brown eyes.

Power.

The Führer knew that difference was dangerous, for difference brought thoughts, and thoughts brought ideas, and ideas ultimately led to disorder and rebellion. He knew this as he baptized hundreds of Jews in the Holy water that shredded what little will and pride remained evident in their tormented souls. With only water and words, the Führer destroyed his enemies more thoroughly than any camp possibly could have, while gaining the image of a forgiving man who granted even the most horrible of villains a second chance. It was and art, picking a human soul apart with such preciseness. A coward the Führer may be, but not a fool. Never a fool.

Adolf Hitler ruled with difference, suppressing his people with flattery and empty promises. But he was ignorant himself, for independence thrives in even the most sheltered of times, and nothing, not even words, can prevent that.

_An introduction: the beginning chapter of a novel, in which the characters, setting, and narrator are revealed. _

I am afraid I must disappoint you. There is no true beginning for a story of this sort, nor is there a definite end. But there was fire.

It was burning day, and the little girl was nowhere to be found. If one was to look upon the labor camp Auschwitz with an unassuming eye, it would appear nothing more than a cluster of smoldered, grey buildings, the epitome of blandness. But yet, protruding from the roof of one stone structure was a small chimney, its width nearly double that of its height. Twice a week (thrice if there was to be poor weather) smoke could be seen rising from within the chimney, its boneless tendrils drifting loftily in the cold, frigid, air. The Oven, it had been called, for where else to cook underdone meat? It had been a standing joke amongst the Führer's men, yet uttered with a single strand of truth. To the prisoners, it was the reality of their sacrifice. Mostly they tried to pretend that it didn't exist. It made work much easier. That was when war favored the Germans.

Fear is a peculiar thing, a mental terror derived from both the childish and significant insecurities that plague us for our entire lives. From the crack of a whip to the shrouding blanket of darkness (or flame against flesh) it is born, striking down even the most fearful of adversaries. Terror was not an uncommon feeling within the minds of every child, man, and women who resided between Auschwitz's barbed gates, an ever-present cloak of immense dread. In 1945, the fear became unanimous, spreading to the lungs of the Nazis who guarded them. The Nazis, who remained superior to the invisible disease that had reeked so definitely from the imprisoned, had fallen at last to its grasping hands. They were losing. In ninety-four days Hitler would lay dead, victim to the bullet that he himself had lodged so deftly in his head. A new game had begun, one in which the losers attempt to rid themselves of as many enemies as deemed possible before time ran out. Smoke rose from the chimney every day, and the prisoners continued to work and pretend. It was burning day. The little girl was nowhere to be found.

From which stood a wooden barrack, surrounded by a frozen garden, a small, prematurely balding man emerged, an arching swastika sewn proudly to the fabric upon his left arm. Yet in his eyes no sign of pride was evident, nor fear or urgency, which had become a common trend throughout the ranks, for there was nothing there at all, only blankness clothed in milky white. The wight's thin features perpetually pinched, as though having been ironed with scalding metal, and he scanned the surrounding barracks with an ugly look of indifference.

Yes, Caul Peregrine was a sight to be seen.

Gone was the charming arrogance that had once possessed his handsome face.

(time had stayed true to its word)

The only remnants of his dark, thick hair lay in scattered clumps, matted loosely upon his head.

(stress is never one to let down)

And nothing remained of the spark of insanity that had once hidden in Caul's melted brown eyes.

(the blankness had taken its place)

He was a dead man with a beating heart. Blood isn't the only thing that keeps one alive.

(but inside he was screaming)

He shouldn't care about the fate of a simple, mundane, little Jewish girl with straw for hair and paper for skin.

(but he did)

Caul was awake. She burned his Script, his metaphorical bonding to the monster in which he had become, so different, yet so alike the ones he saw everyday with their hands raised in a two-fingered salute. And he remembered. But it was too late. Little girls burn just as easily as words.

(_heil_ Hitler!)

* * *

Innocence is a peculiar thing, an illusion so devastatingly simple that it becomes real. It turns prowlers into mysterious knights and blood into a pool of grape juice, while the foolish become wise and the dead are only sleeping (forever). Abe could see it glow in the children's bright, open eyes as they gazed upon the burning sky, their voices united in a joyous song as the thundering boom of the bombs broke through the air with a crackle of ecstatic energy.

"_Run, rabbit, run, rabbit, run, run, RUN!"_

The sky was made of colors, from angry red to the small patch of dying blue, they joined as one in melodious coexistence. Abe would have called it beautiful, yet it was anything but. The ugly grey of the Luftwaffe planes clashed horribly with the molten sky, their steel tails blinking at each other from across the battle field in an unrecognizable flurry.

"_Bang, bang, BANG goes the farmer's gun,"_

To the children, they were only planes, simply an entertaining aerial performance that they took for granted every night, and the bomb a spectacular finale.

"_He'll get by without his rabbit pie,"_

Never had they imagined the true meaning of the word _final,_

"_So, run, rabbit, run, rabbit, RUN!"_

Or that their _show _remained the leading antagonist in thousands of children's dreams.

Abe tightened his laced fingers with the blonde, smiling girl who lay on the yellowing, parched grass next to him, her eyes focused upon his face with an unreadable expression. Not because he found it puzzling, for he knew her oddities too well to be concerned with such a simple matter, but because her face remained hidden behind a mask that concealed her features from his view. Abe did not notice her gaze, as his own remained fixated on the burning sky, a small frown forming upon his pale lips as he watched the air erupt in chaos and fire.

The children's song had ended, and for that, he was relieved. How many times had Abe bit back the temptation to order them to stop, and tell them that what they were singing of was not just a mere game, a hilarious joke to accompany an old story… and that it was real. Real that people were dying repeatedly every night their loop existed, condemned to meet their deaths for eternity? But he didn't, because they couldn't know. Not when there was so much at stake.

"Abraham Porter… Favorite of the house, expert on all things hollowgaust, pillow-wielding extraordinaire… frightened of a few loud, scary bangs?" Emma said, prodding Abe in the ribs with her elbow, causing him to wince and her to stifle poorly concealed laughter. Her voice was light and teasing, uttering a statement that generally would have brought Abe to retaliate happily with no hesitation. But things had changed, and so had he.

"Of course I am," He replied, and the dry grass crunched grotesquely from beneath him as he turned over on his side, gazing evenly at the darkened holes of Emma's deformed mask, imagining the melted brown eyes that were surely staring back at him in confusion. "Every night."

For a moment, Emma said nothing, and her hand, which had only moments before been tightly entwined in Abe's own, began to slip from his grasp. Her lips, which had twitched suddenly as if to recover from his curt confession with a bantering remark, lay still as she acknowledged the solemnity evident in his voice. But when Emma spoke, it was with renewed confidence… confidence that is often found within the minds of young children boasting of their small, meager accomplishments, as well as the soldiers (who were nearly as young) who marched to the battle-field knowing that they, and they alone, were invincible. "They can't get to us, you know," She stated quietly, her eyes following Abe's as they watched the Luftwaffe planes swoop bird-like over the ensuing chaos. "They don't exist… not really. They're just memories, playing over and over. Rewinding and rewinding."

"Rewinding and rewinding," Abe agreed, but something had changed in his voice. An anger, which had been forgotten ever since he stepped off the old steam train which had brought him to the house, had returned, feeding off of his mind like a parasite would to its host. Emma couldn't possibly understand, not when she had been living the past hundred years in a sheltered safe haven, which Abe was beginning to realize was more of a cunningly disguised prison than a paradise. "Again and again," A small smile was beginning to form on Abe's lips, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "People are dying every day out there, Emma. Every day. Tell me how that isn't real. Tell me how that is only a memory."

"I-I suppose—"

"You suppose? There is nothing to suppose when your life is nothing but a sheltered haven, nothing but a delicate piece of china carefully preserved."

Emma's hand fell away from his completely, and a dull, bitter pang struck Abe's stomach as he watched her arm drop gently to her side. Although the mask prevented him from witnessing the numb expression which had crossed upon Emma's face, it could not stop the painful voice from being heard. "What's wrong with you, Abe? Why have you been acting like this lately? I thought… Well, never mind what I thought, because it doesn't seem to matter to you anyway… You used to be so different. The children loved you because of it. What happened to the stories you would tell Claire every night? And Olive's piggy-back rides? Fiona's flowers, and Bronwyn and Victor's Olympic competitions?" Emma paused, her breath catching as she caught herself mid-rant.

Each word left Abe feeling even angrier and even more alone. And even though Emma had stopped her words before the utmost damage could be done, he knew what she had been going to say.

"_Why are you ignoring me?_"

_Because my family is dying, locked up in some God-forsaken labor camp… if they aren't dead already. And I'm not there with them, but I should be there as well._

…_.Because I am doing _nothing_ to help them._

His words were lost as the final bomb descended upon the old house, whistling through the warm, summer's air with horrifying speed. Abe closed his eyes, as he always did, and waited for the silence that would announce the end of another day. The end of another memory. It came, as it always did. Ever so predictable, ever so the same. The screams were the same as well, and they too had ended with the silence. But not for much longer. The children cheered (as they did every night) as the bomb touched down upon the tip of Adam's finger, seemingly stopped in its path by the giant man. But Abe knew better. No man could stop the Luftwaffe's toys.

Abe stood up from the yellowing grass, the dry tendrils crackling like toast as he tore his gaze away from Emma, refusing to acknowledge her presence. He could still feel her eyes on the back of his left as he made his way back to the house. Back to Miss Peregrine. Back to the bird. Abe paused in his stride only as he felt a small hand pull gently at the corner of his sleeve, quietly trying to gain his attention. He turned with an irritated gleam peering out from his eyes, expecting to see that Emma had returned to continue to chastise him for his behavior. It was only Olive, with her light, feathery hair cascading down her small back in hastily wound ties. Her movements were slow and cautious, as though she feared the wooden shoes laced upon her feet would slip, allowing her to drift off into the sky, devoid of any anchor. Abe glanced down upon the little girl, and felt his irritation melt away, instantly regretting the frustrated words that he had (almost) spoken.

"Abe, are you going to leave?" Olive asked, her fingers still clinging on to the small piece of fabric dangling from his wrist. The question hurt Abe more than any of Emma's accusations.

_Why? Why this?_

_Because he knew the answer._

"Of course not, Olive… I promised I wouldn't, remember?" Abe reassured the small girl, but he did not take her hand as he had always done when she confessed her small fears to him, knowing that he would have a solution. But he didn't (he didn't have a solution).

Olive nodded her acceptance, her brittle frame sagging in relief as she recalled Abe's words. He never broke his promises. "Okay, I'm glad you're staying… I like having you here… You're my best friend. Even more than Claire. I'd be sad with you gone."

Abe forced himself to turn his head back to Olive, for even though he knew she couldn't see the expression now plastered to his face, he couldn't help but feel the girl's eyes cut through his mask to his eyes, reading the lie as easily as he would with words. "I couldn't leave you," Abe told her, forcing a smile to be heard in his voice. "What would I do without the lot of you to keep me busy? I'd be nothing more than a bored, old man with nothing better to do than poke around all day playing a one-sided chess match."

Olive laughed, her hands clenched at her side as she allowed any doubt to be swept aside. Abe was swept over by guilt. There was no point in making her sad… It was best to keep the children happy, even if it lasted only for a night. He wondered if his impatience really was so easily read, not only by Olive, but by everyone. But Fiona and Hugh did not question him for fear that he would leave… Bronwyn and Victor did not express any concern when he did not join in with the nightly singing. Only Olive. And Emma. Ah, Emma, of course.

"Why would you think such a thing of me?" Abe asked, keeping voice light and relaxed, not unlike the one Emma had addressed him in before the descent of the bomb. He feigned hurt, pretending to be disappointed that Olive had doubted his stability. In a way, he was. "Did Emma tell you that?"

Olive gazed up at him, and shook her head slowly, blonde curls bouncing free of their ties as she continued the action. "No," She said, her voice laced with confusion and ridiculousness of the question. "Horace did."

Dinner was a rambunctious affair, as it always was, yet a sort of tension hung in the air as each child piled astoundingly large servings upon their plates (it would all be gone tomorrow, anyway). Abe had seated himself between Enoch and Victor, the former who was enthusiastically explaining the significant differences between his clay figures from when he had used the beating heart of a mouse, compared to the heart of a rat. He had made a _point _to avoid the empty chair positioned next to Emma, and had conspicuously pretended that he was not aware that it had even existed, despite the fact that he had previously occupied it the past few years. _First mistake. _ Abe should have known that such obvious detail would not have gone unnoticed by Miss Peregrine. The bird was not foolish. She knew what might follow. Her eyes were narrowed in question, but Abe averted own, staring down at his bare salad with newfound interest.

_Second mistake. _Emma asked for someone to pass the pepper. Abe, having just finished using said seasoning, obeyed her request. Hugh stared at him as though he had just confessed that he was nine months pregnant. A bee flew out of his open mouth, buzzing erratically as it flew around Fiona's head before returning to its owner.

_Third mistake. _ Abe never, _never, _refused the opportunity to make a potato joke. But he did, even when Emma had been struck by an airborne hash brown, courtesy to Bronwyn. A very long, and very awkward silence had then followed, in which the children gazed impatiently up at him, returning to their previous conversations only when it was obvious that Abe was_ not _going to entertain them with a joke as cheesy as the potatoes themselves. Abe always came up with the best pathetic jokes.

When the time came for the children to be dismissed from the clustered dining table, Abe was the first to push in his chair, returning to the group only to rinse his plate in the unpleasantly cool water that sprang from the kitchen sink. He disregarded Claire's usual attempts to revive the old tradition of her bedtime story, claiming that she was far too old (nearing one hundred) to be treated to such infantile creations. As he placed a hand on the spiraling staircase that bore way to his room, a quiet voice called out to him. Abe turned, lowering his eyes subtly as he recognized the gentle yet stern way in which his name was spoken. There was only one woman he knew who could conduct such a feat, and it was she whom Abe feared would discover his plans to abandon the ancient house.

"Retiring to your room so early in the evening, Abraham? I must admit that I am taken by surprise… Both you and Miss Bloom have a tendency to avoid the night, particularly whilst in the company of one another." Miss Peregrine's eyes glided slowly over the wooden banister, searching for the person of question, yet Abe suspected that she did not truly expect to see Emma, with a blush curling up her neck as their patron dismantled any suggestive behavior.

"Emma's not here," Abe stated, clearing his throat suddenly once he realized that Miss Peregrine was waiting for him to pursue the conversation himself. "Must be downstairs…with the children."

"And may I ask why you have chosen to leave her with the others? I believed you two to be seemingly inseparable, what with your refusal to remove yourselves from each other's presence for little longer than ten minutes." Miss Peregrine's gaze was innocent enough, though her voice had taken on a slightly impatient tone. Abe searched his mind desperately for an excuse viable enough to relieve of his questioning, and spoke the first possible solution that occurred to him.

"Er, I just have kind of a headache." Abe lied through a half open mouth, cursing himself for the disgruntled manner in which his words presented themselves. "I figured I'd get to sleep early." He could tell that Miss Peregrine did not believe his poor excuse for even a fraction of a second, yet she did not interrogate him any further.

"Very well," She murmured, her lips pressing into a thin, fine line as she examine him carefully. "Let me know if you have need for anything."

Abe nodded his consent, before continuing up the stairway, resisting the temptation to abandon his self-control and mount the steps up full speed. Once safely in his room, Abe shut the thick, heavy wooden door behind him, securing the lock with a small, brass key that sat upon the door frame. After satisfied with his given privacy, Abe drew back his closet doors, and after a moment of hesitation, he selected a large, hideously green trunk, and dragged it from its bedraggled position. He was completely packed within the next quarter of an hour.

Abe gazed around at the unfamiliar emptiness of the room that had occupied him for so long; the only things that remained were a few spare pieces of furniture and a collection of photographs staring accusingly back at him. He cautiously placed a hand on the surface of one, and gently brushed off the dust that had taken home to its bronze framing. It was of a boy, his fingers laced with those a smiling girl with hair the color of straw. Her eyes seemed to be glued to the boy's face, as though if to look away would mean leaving him forever. Yet the boy did not return the attention that he received, and stared off into the distance, his eyes oddly distant and vacant. With a pang, Abe realized that the picture did not reflect only the past, but the present and future. It was what it had always been like, and all it would ever be. A girl gazing transfixed at the apparition of a ghost.

Abe slid the photograph from its frame, and folded it into his coat pocket, feeling slightly guilty as he bent the delicate edges. He could do no more for Emma, not when the war demanded all of his thoughts and longing. Once more, he tipped his hat to the cursed Führer, who killed the dreams of an innocent, young girl without even knowing of her existence.

(_heil_ Hitler!)

Now all he could do was wait, wait for the children and the bird to be consumed by sleep. Then he would leave this place forever.


End file.
